They both clammed up as the girls filed past the bench, inhaling oranges and cookies and Gatorade. In seconds they were gone, leaving nothing but empty plates and crushed cups in their wake.
Tom stuffed his hands in his pockets. “You don’t know what’s going on, Grace. You don’t know what my life is like. I just want—”
“I’m not really interested in what you want, Tom. At this moment, I’m just trying to be here for one of my kids. I hope we can be civil for their sakes, but as far as your wants and needs—well, I guess that’s what you’ve got Marlene for.”
Tom’s jaw twitched.
Grace wondered if he and Marlene were having problems. So, why should she give a damn? She had her own relationships to worry about.
Ludmilla waved to her from across the field.
Okay. So maybe it was time to reconsider her definition of relationship.
She looked over at Megan, chatting with her friends, watching her and Tom out of the corner of her eye. She’d been through so much the past year. They all had.
She didn’t want to put the kids through a move, on top of everything else.
“All right,” she said, forcing a smile for Megan’s benefit. “I’ll do it.”
“Oh, God. That’s great, Gracie. I knew I could count on you.” He pulled an envelope from his jacket pocket.
“You brought them with you?”
He gave her a sheepish grin. “Just in case.”
She looked around nervously, expecting the cops to be waiting for her just outside the fence. But there was no one there.
The game had resumed, and Ludmilla and the team moved to the far end of the field, leaving her and Tom pretty much alone. She spread the papers out on the bench, studying the signature he wanted her to forge.
“Roger Davis,” she read. “Isn’t that your boss?”
He nodded but didn’t offer any more information. And she didn’t ask.
She had the feeling she wasn’t signing an authorization for an extra day of vacation, but she figured the less she knew about all of this, the better.
“I’ll have to practice the signature a few times before I sign them. I’ll get them back to you.”
“When?”
She pulled her Day-Timer out of her purse and flipped through it.
“Will Marlene be home tomorrow morning?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
“Good. I’ll bring them over then.” She shoved the papers back into the envelope and stuck them in her purse. “The kids will be at my mom’s this weekend if you want to get in touch with them,” she said. “Kevin has a soccer game tomorrow.”
“I know,” Tom said. “I’ll be there.”
“How about if we also meet at the notary office Tuesday morning?” she said. “You can bring the papers for the house, and the title to the ’Vette, too.”
He gave her a sickly smile.
“Don’t worry,” she said. “It’ll be relatively painless. We’ll get it all over with at once. Like pulling off a Band-Aid.”
He opened his mouth as if he might say something, but he didn’t. He just walked back toward the bleachers, hands in his pockets, his three-hundred-dollar shoes sucking mud.
Chapter 2.5
Friday, 5:58 p.m.
Roadkill
The asshole drove right past their meeting place.
According to the plan, as soon as Balboa arrived in Philly, he was supposed to drive straight to the gym and call from a pay phone. Shit. He was gonna screw them.
Pete had followed Balboa’s rented green Taurus all the way from the airport. Balboa’s own car, a cherry 1959 Buick, still sat in the VIP parking lot at the airport.
If Pete hadn’t suspected Balboa was turning on them and staked out the baggage claim, he’d never even have known the guy was back in town a day early.
He flipped open his cell phone. “Lou. He’s back.”
“No shit.”
“I followed him from the airport. He just passed the gym. I need you to go wait at his house. I doubt he’ll show up there, but you never know.”
“Right. I’m on it.”
Pete snapped the phone closed.
In front of him, the Taurus eased into the exit lane. It looked like Balboa was heading for City Avenue.
Pete jockeyed through four lanes of frantic expressway traffic but just missed the exit.
Damn.
When Pete caught up to him, that son of a bitch Nick Balboa was dead meat.
Chapter 3
Friday, 7:12 p.m.
Oh, Mother!
As she drove toward her childhood home in Ambler, Grace felt younger and younger until, by the time she pulled into her parents’ driveway, she was eight again.
In her mind she could hear the sprinklers whirring, and smell the newly cut grass of her youth. She looked across the street, half expecting to see her best friend, Sherri Rasmussen, playing hopscotch on the sidewalk.
“Okay, guys, everybody out of the car. Callie, don’t forget your flute.”
As the kids dragged their crap up the sidewalk, the door opened and Grace’s mother stuck her head out. “My babies are here! Andrew, the children are here! Come help them with their things.”
“Hi, Mom.” Grace herded the kids into the house and bussed her mother on the cheek. “Thanks for taking them this weekend.”
“Well, your father and I can imagine how difficult things must be for you, with the—” she stuck her head out the door and scanned the neighborhood for spies“—divorce.”
Divorce was one of the words in Grace’s mother’s vocabulary fit only for whispering.
“You can say it out loud, Mom. It’s not a dirty word.”
Her mother pulled a face. “Come on in.”
“Actually, I was kind of in a hurry.”
“So you don’t have time for a soda? Come in for a minute. I want to show you something.”
Grace sighed. She knew once she got sucked over the threshold, it would be at least a half an hour before she got out of there.
The kids thumped up the stairs, already arguing about who’d get to play her father’s Nintendo first. Grace followed her mother to the kitchen and sat on one of the vinyl-covered chairs. They were the same chairs she’d sat on as a child, once sadly out of style but suddenly retro chic.
“Look what I made in craft class,” her mother said. She held out a tissue box cover constructed of yarn-covered plastic mesh. God Bless You was cross-stitched into the side in block letters.
“Nice.”
“Here, take it. I made it for you. And you know, you can come with me next week. We’re making birds out of Styrofoam.”
“That’s nice, but I can’t.”
Her mother took a diet soda from the refrigerator. “Why not? Now that Tom is gone, what are you doing with your time?”
Grace got up to get a glass from the cupboard. “I’ve got plenty to do, Mom.”
“Like what?”
“Well, tonight I’m meeting some of my old high school friends for a drink downtown.”
Her mother’s eyebrows shot up and disappeared beneath her heavily hair-sprayed bangs. “Really? Do I know them?”
Déjà vu. How many times had Grace seen that look growing up? She felt inexplicably guilty, and she hadn’t even lied about anything. Yet.
“Roseanna Janosik’s going to be there. I ran into her today at Beruglia’s.”
Her mother sat down at the table. “Roseanna Janosik. Isn’t that the girl who got caught smoking at cheerleading camp?” She pulled a face.
“That was Cecilia Stavros. And Jesus, Mom. That was a hundred years ago.”
“You’re right, of course. People change. Look at you.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Her mother shrugged. “So who was Roseanna Janosik?” She tapped her chin. “I remember! She was the one who was crazy about that band and followed them everywhere.”
“Right. Mullet.”
“What? What’s a
mullet?”
“A bad haircut. And the name of the band Roseanna followed.” Grace chugged her soda. “C’mon, tell me. What did you mean I’ve changed?”
Her mother got up from the table and took Grace’s empty glass. “Oh, for heaven’s sake, Grace, I didn’t mean anything by it. Is that what you’re wearing?”
“As a matter of fact, it is.” Grace tugged the hem of her black skirt, but it refused to budge. She buttoned the red Chinese silk jacket Tom had given her the Valentine’s Day before last. It had been the only thing in her closet remotely resembling club attire.
Her mother raised her eyebrows again. “Well, have fun. Tell Roseanna I said hello.”
“Right.”
Grace stalked to the bottom of the stairs. “Megan, Callie, Kevin. I’m leaving now!”
Megan and Kevin shouted a muffled goodbye. Callie stuck her head over the second-floor railing. “Bye, Mom. Have fun without us.”
Grace tamped down a sudden attack of guilt. “I’ll miss you.”
“I’ll miss you, too. Can we make brownies when I come home?” Callie could sense Grace’s subtle vibrations of guilt like a fine-tuned seismograph.
“Sure.”
“Grace, are you still here?” her mother called from the kitchen.
If she didn’t get out of there soon, her mother would be dragging her up to the guest bathroom to show her the decorative fertility mask she’d made out of half of a bleach bottle.
Grace wiggled her fingers at Callie and slipped out the front door.
Friday, 8:08 p.m.
Killing Me Softly
Grace sped down the Blue Route in the eight-year-old BMW that used to be Tom’s but was now hers. He’d insisted on getting a manual transmission, and now she was stuck with it—a real pain in the butt while she was trying to wipe noses and juggle juice boxes.
She much preferred the minivan, but she’d be damned if she was going to pull into a club driving the family taxi.
She fiddled with the radio. Why were all the stations in her car set to soft rock? When, exactly, had her eardrums surrendered?
She searched the dial for the station that played all eighties, all the time. AC/DC’s “You Shook Me All Night Long” came on and she smiled. It took her back to when she and her girlfriends would cruise the back roads in an old Dodge Dart looking for keg parties, blasting this song and singing at the top of their lungs.
How sad. Somehow she’d gone from AC/DC to Celine Dion. From keg parties to the occasional glass of chardonnay. Was that what her mother meant? Was that how she’d changed?
She knew it was that, and a whole lot more. She used to have spirit. She used to take risks.
But when she’d married Tom, somehow it had been easy to accept the security and stability he provided in exchange for a few little changes. Higher necklines. Lower hemlines. The Junior League instead of her bowling league.
She drove around for almost an hour, reprogramming the buttons on her radio and thinking about all the crazy things she used to do, forcing herself not to worry that she was going to be late.
Eventually, she pulled into the parking lot of the club. She squinted up at the sign.
Caligula?
She checked the address in her Day-Timer. Sure enough, it was right.
She almost backed out of the lot, but images of her closet filled with navy poly-blend slacks and V-neck sweaters bolstered her nerve.
She could be every bit as crazy as her teenage alter ego. She could.
She got out of the car and tugged her skirt down as far as she could.
“Bring on the Romans,” she said to the dark.
Friday, 9:13 p.m.
Flaming Togas
“ID, please.”
The guy at the door wore baggy jeans and a black T-shirt with a picture of a snarling bulldog. His fingers worked the buttons of a Game Boy with lightning speed.
The B-52’s “Love Shack” blasted out through the open door of the club.
Grace leaned in so the bouncer could hear her over the noise. “You’re kidding me, right? Have you even looked at me? I was twenty-one when this song actually came out.”
He shined a flashlight in her face. “Sorry ’bout that. Five bucks.”
He stepped aside, and she walked straight into ancient Rome. Or a Hollywood-meets-Las Vegas version of it, anyway.
Buff, gorgeous, toga-clad waiters and waitresses wandered the faux-marble floor carrying trays of colorful drinks. Buff, gorgeous, denim-clad patrons sipped them while leaning against faux-marble columns. They were all so young. Well, most of them, anyway.
Grace had no trouble spotting her old high school friends. They were the only ones not trying to look bored.
Roseanna must have had one eye on the door, because she waved to Grace as soon as she walked in.
“Oh. My. God. It’s Grace Poleiski,” somebody shrieked.
Grace smiled. “Hi, everybody.”
The women at the table jumped up and swarmed around her. She exchanged a quick hug with each of them, blinking back the tears that had inexplicably formed in her eyes.
“Sit,” commanded Roseanna. “We just ordered a round of Flaming Togas.”
Grace hooked her handbag over the back of a chair and sat down, taking in all the changes in her friends. “Cecilia, you look great. You lost weight?”
“Forty pounds. Ephedra, until they took it off the market. If I hadn’t started smoking again to compensate, I’d probably look like the Michelin Man already. Hey, you’re looking good, too, Grace.”
“Yeah? I guess you could say I lost some weight, too. About two hundred pounds.”
“What! How’d you do that?”
“It just walked away.”
It took the girls a minute to figure out what she was talking about.
“Your husband,” Roseanna said.
Grace nodded.
Cecilia shook her head. “No shit. When did that happen?”
“January second. Screwing me over was his New Year’s resolution, I guess.”
A waiter arrived with a tray of pale orange shots and set one in front of each woman. He pulled a pack of matches out of the folds of his toga and lit the shots. Low blue flames danced on the surface of the liquor.
“Don’t forget to blow ’em out before you drink ’em,” he said. “We’ve had a couple of mishaps.”
Roseanna smiled. “Remember when Dannie accidentally lit her hair on fire while she was smoking a cigarette in the girls’ bathroom?”
“What did she expect?” said Cecilia. “She used so much hair spray, her hair wouldn’t have moved in a hurricane.”
“Come on,” Dannie said. “My hair wasn’t any worse than anyone else’s. In fact, I remember Grace getting hers tangled in the volleyball net in gym class. It had to be at least a foot high.”
They all laughed.
Grace ordered a margarita and another round of shots.
The waiter walked away, his tight little butt all but peeking out from under the toga.
Dannie propped her chin up on her hand. “Those look like my sheets he’s wearing.”
“You wish,” Cecilia said.
Grace pulled a bunch of pictures out of her purse and passed them to Roseanna.
She’d found them in a shoe box along with the dance card and tiny pencil from her prom, a football homecoming program and the hunk of yarn she’d used to wrap around her high school boyfriend’s class ring.
“Oh, God. I remember this skirt,” Roseanna said. “I couldn’t get one thigh in there, now.”
“Sure you could,” Dannie said. “It would be a little tight, though.”
“Ha-ha.” Roseanna passed the pictures to Cecilia. “Hey, remember when we used to play truth or dare in study hall?”
“Yeah. I think Mr. Montrose almost had a heart attack,” said Cecilia. “You’d always dare me to lean over his desk to ask him a question.”
“He couldn’t stand up for the rest of the class.”
“To Mr. Mon
trose,” said Grace, raising the shot the waiter had just delivered. They all toasted Mr. Montrose and blew out their Flaming Togas.
“Let’s play,” said Roseanna.
“Play what?”
“Truth or dare.”
“Here?” Grace said. “You’re crazy.”
“It’ll be fun,” said Dannie.
“Why not?” said Cecilia.
Music thumped in the background. Mötley Crüe belted out “Girls, Girls, Girls.”
“What the hell,” Grace said.
Friday, 11:44 p.m.
Gracie’s Secret
Grace was drunk.
Not merely drunk but what they once affectionately called shit-faced.
Roseanna’s head rested on the table, surrounded by empty shot glasses. Dannie balanced a straw on her nose. Cecilia puffed on a cigarette, making tiny smoke rings by tapping on her cheek.
Grace had quit smoking soon after she’d married Tom. He disapproved of the habit. Said it made her look cheap. Unlike Marlene, who looked so classy covered in grape jelly.
“Gimme one of those,” Grace said.
Cecilia rolled a cigarette across the table. “Okay. Grace’s turn. Truth or dare?”
“Truth.”
“What’s the worst thing you’ve ever done? And high school shenanigans don’t count.”
Grace shook her head. “Nothing. I’ve never done anything remotely bad.”
“Oh, come on,” Dannie said, taking the straw off her nose. “We know you better than that.”
“Seriously. I’m the perfect wife. The perfect mother. The perfect daughter. The worst thing I’ve ever done is wear this skirt, which is definitely too short for me. Gimme a light.”
“Dare it is, then,” Roseanna said, dragging herself to a sitting position.
“What? I told you—”
“No way. You’re lying,” said Cecilia. “But that’s okay, because I have the perfect dare for you.”
Grace raised her eyebrows.
“Go over there and give your underwear—” Cecilia pointed toward the bar “—to him.”
Grace sucked in her cheeks.
The guy looked as if he’d stepped off the pages of GQ. Black turtleneck. Black leather jacket. Dark, brooding eyes. He sat in a pool of light shining down from the ceiling as if he were some sort of fallen angel. The most gorgeous in-the-flesh man she’d ever seen.
A Widow in Paradise & Suburban Secrets Page 20
